


sowing season

by sodun



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dissociation, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mentor!Negan, Neglect, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Underage Drinking, carl cares about judith and maggie and no one else, carl hates his dad, kind of??, not cegan, rarl is past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-21 01:08:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodun/pseuds/sodun
Summary: “I want you to work for me,” Negan says, taking a step back. He grabs his bat from where it stands against the table, swings it up and rests it against his shoulder. “I think you and your man-sized balls could make a fuckinggreatleader someday. I want to train you, whip you into shape, have you work for me. My second in command, maybe.”Carl blinks at him, says, “you’re serious,” and though it’s more of a statement than a question, Negan nods.Alternatively, Carl leaves his family to work for Negan.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost, there is no cegan in this. negan and carl have a father/son thing going on. second, a lot of canon scenes are used/referenced but altered/mixed with comic canon so if something seems wrong it was intentional (i.e. s4e16). finally, there's a lot of heavy topics in this fic. take the tags seriously.
> 
> alternate title is "'father?' 'yes son?' 'i want to kill you'" (from the end - the doors)

“You got one of our guns.”

Carl meets Negan’s gaze, narrows his eye at the tyrant kneeling in front of him. The soft ‘woah’ that Negan huffs out almost makes Carl smirk, but he doesn’t, just keeps glaring. 

“Yeah, you got a lot of our guns,” Negan continues, searches Carl’s eye for something other than hatred. When he comes up short, he leans a little closer, the beginnings of a smile stretching his lips. “Shit, kid, lighten up. At least cry a little.”

Carl doesn’t cry, and Negan eyes him curiously for a few more seconds before he chuckles and moves on.

Carl stiffens when Negan makes his way over to Maggie, but he doesn’t act out like Glenn. No, he won’t make any stupid moves and get himself killed. He’ll kneel, still and stoic, and he’ll glare but he won’t try to be a hero. 

“Sucks, don’t it? The moment you realize you don’t know shit,” Negan says, and Carl follows his eyes, sees his dad on the verge of tears, panting, swaying back and forth like a madman. Carl has to stop himself from rolling his eye at his dad’s weakness. 

Negan catches Carl looking, and his eyes light up as he glances between the two of them. “This is your kid, right?” Negan points the bat at Carl, takes a few steps closer to him and laughs. “This is _definitely_ your fuckin’ kid!”

“Just stop this!” Rick yells, and Carl closes his eye as Negan turns away. He mentally curses his dad for his stupidity, for doubting that Carl can handle this asshole on his own.

“Hey!” Negan yells, but the humor in his eyes doesn’t fade. “Do not make me kill the little future serial killer! Don’t make it easy on me.” 

Carl snickers, feels Aaron’s eyes on him but he doesn’t take his eyes off Negan. 

“I gotta pick somebody,” Negan glances back to Carl, smirking, “Everybody’s at the table, waiting for me to order.”

Carl watches Negan as he says his stupid nursery rhyme, swings his bat around, doesn’t flinch or falter as he focuses on the spikes of barbed wire standing on the wood when it’s pointed at him.

Negan stops on Abraham, and Carl doesn’t react when Negan talks about cutting his remaining eye out, doesn’t look away when Negan slams the bat against the top of Abraham’s head. 

Carl watches, eye wide with morbid curiosity as blood and bone and brain mix in with the gravel. He memorizes the way the man’s body jerks, his fingers twitching where they rest next to the pile of gore that once was his head. Carl can make out part of an ear, some hair still attached to a larger chunk of Abraham’s skull, a few teeth. Blood drips off the end of the bat, skin clinging to the barbed wire. That’s Abe, that’s all of him, spread out on the ground in a mess of flesh. That’s the man whose arms Carl found refuge in when he was at his lowest. That’s the man who held Carl tight in his lap and pet his hair as they watched Rick commit a murder. Every thought Abraham has ever had, all of his memories, squished into the dirt.

How fucking _fascinating_.

Glenn is harder to watch, and that’s mostly because of the baby Maggie’s carrying, but Carl manages. Takes in the sight of his popped-out eye, the blood running down his face, the sound of him choking on it, gurgling low in his throat. He watches long after everyone else has looked away, as Negan continues to uselessly mash Glenn’s brains into the earth long after he kills him.

When Negan leaves with Rick in tow, Carl wants to get up and go to Maggie, comfort her, tell her that Glenn died so she didn’t have to, so her baby can live, but he doesn’t. Just stays put like everyone else, staring at the ground in front of him, aside from a few glances at Maggie to make sure she’s still conscious. It’s like he’s in a trance, like he’s watching the sun rise on a movie screen and not in front of his eyes.

Negan brings Rick back in one piece. Carl watches in disinterest and mild disgust as his dad is thrown onto the ground, Abraham’s blood still streaked across his cheekbone. Rick’s voice is shaking and Carl almost cringes. He’s too fucking _weak_ to be in this position.

Carl peers up at Negan when he calls him, beckoning him over with a wiggle of his finger. He doesn’t move until Negan calls him a second time, the joking tone now lost from his voice. Even then, Carl sighs like it’s a nuisance, fixing Negan with a bored stare as he walks over. 

“You a southpaw?” Negan asks, and Carl watches him tug off his belt with his empty hand. 

“Am I a _what_?”

“A lefty,” Negan says, waiting for the answer that Carl takes his time in giving.

“No.”

Negan’s eyes widen, brows shooting up for a second, amused by Carl’s lack of fear. “Good,” he says, grabbing Carl’s left arm and wrapping the belt around it, pulling it tight.

“That hurt?” He asks as he secures the leather in place.

Carl tells him it doesn’t, watching, unsure of why the hell this idiot is tying a belt around his bicep. “It should,” Negan says, eyeing Carl carefully, “it’s supposed to.”

Negan tells him to get down on the ground, pulls the sheriff's hat off Carl’s head and tosses it behind him. Slowly, Carl lowers himself, the fire in his gut burning hotter when Negan pushes him the rest of the way. His pulse quickens a bit as he remembers the last time he was pushed onto gravel like this, what the last man to shove his face into the dirt did to him. 

Negan asks for a pen, catches it easily when Simon throws it to him. He mumbles some shit about cold balls as he draws a line across Carl’s forearm in black marker, and that’s when Carl catches on. He remembers how Rick tied his belt around Hershel’s leg when it had to be amputated, realizes that’s Negan is doing, that he wants to cut Carl’s arm off. Rick starts whispering to Negan, pleading with him not to do it.

“Me?” Negan laughs, “I ain’t doin’ shit.”

He tells Rick to cut Carl’s arm off, threatens to kill more people, before Michonne speaks out. Carl shakes his head at her minutely, but she doesn’t stop, keeps talking. Negan doesn’t listen to her, and Carl vaguely hears him talking about a salami slice, about a doctor that will fix him up, but he’s not really listening, trying to process the fact that he’s about to lose his arm. 

Negan starts counting, Rick starts crying. He picks up the axe, grabs on to Carl hand and yells, shaking his head. 

“Just do it,” Carl says, twice, and Rick raises the axe. Rick clutches onto Carl’s hand but it feels far away, a faint tingling on his skin that he tries to chase but can’t quite reach. Carl braces himself, waits for the pain, but it doesn’t come.

Negan is talking again, and Carl realizes it’s not going to happen. 

Daryl is thrown into a van, Negan makes more threats, calls Rick a little bitch (and Carl has to swallow down a laugh at that), and then they’re gone.

Maggie says they have to get ready to fight, and Carl looks over at her from where he’s seated on the ground. He guesses he should be sad, about Glenn at the very least, but he isn’t. As he looks around at his friends, Carl realizes something.

He’s the only one who didn’t cry.

 

Carl’s in awe as his eyes scan over the saviours, all kneeling on the floor below him and Negan. Negan tells him it’s respect, but Carl knows it’s really fear. It’s cool all the same, thrilling to be standing above this sea of followers, even if it’s not him they’re kneeling for.

Negan’s harem is shocking. A dozen or so women, all Negan’s wives. Negan tells him he can look at their “titties”, and Carl raises his eyebrow, deciding to keep his lack of interest in the female body to himself. He wonders why Negan is willing to share with him, though, when right after he’s scolding one of his wives for cheating.

Daryl comes in and Carl decides it’s good to see that he’s alive and well. He finds that he doesn’t really care, but he knows he should, so he tells himself it’s good. Daryl asks Negan why Carl’s there, like it was Negan’s doing, like he thinks Carl can’t make his own decisions, take care of himself. Just like everyone else. Negan makes some empty threat about sticking a toothpick in Carl’s eye, and he laughs, can’t help himself. Daryl looks at him oddly, and Negan laughs too.

Next, Negan takes him to his bedroom. It’s nicer than Carl expected, clean and well decorated. They sit in chairs across from each other, a table in between them. 

“I want to get to know you a little better, Carl,” Negan says, resting his elbows on his knees. 

Carl asks why, gets a spiel about how smart he is. It’s something Carl doesn’t hear from anyone, and it makes him feel good, proud even, until Negan tells him to take his bandage off.

“No,” Carl says, scowling at Negan. 

“Two men!” Negan yells, and Carl flinches, just a bit, “Two. Fucking. Men. Punishment. Do you really want to piss me off?”

Carl wants to tell him he’s not afraid, but knows that his life currently rests in this man’s gloved hands. So, he reaches up, starts unwinding the bandage. Once it’s off, he lets his hair cover the wound, but Negan quickly tells him to move it, so he does.

“Christ!” Negan exclaims, “that is disgusting! No wonder you cover that shit up. Have you seen it? I mean, have you looked in the mirror? That is gross as fuck. I can see your socket!”

Tears burn in Carl’s eye, not because his feelings are hurt, but because he’s mad, at Negan for trying to make him feel bad, and at Ron for shooting him. 

Negan asks to touch it, then he notices the tears and starts to apologize. Carl tells him to stop, and Negan studies him for a moment. 

“All jokes aside, you look rad as fuck. I wouldn’t cover that shit up. It may not be a hit with the ladies, but I swear to you, no one is gonna screw with you looking like that,” Negan says with a grin, “So, how’d you end up lookin’ like that, huh?” 

Carl glares, doesn’t say anything. 

Negan sighs, leaning in closer. “Answer me. You get shot?” 

“No shit,” Carl says.

Laughing, Negan shakes his head. “I like you, kid. So, who did it?”

“Someone I used to know,” Carl shrugs, “his name was Ron.”

“Was?” Negan inquires, raising an eyebrow.

“He’s dead.”

“You kill him?”

Carl rolls his eye. “No, I was a little busy getting a bullet removed from my skull.”

Negan’s demeanour changes, humor seeming to fade, being replaced with curiosity. “Who was Ron? A friend? Enemy?”

Carl sighs, looking down at the table for a second, before he meets Negan’s eyes again. “My boyfriend.”

“Huh,” Negan chuckles, nodding, “I knew something was up when you didn’t jump at the chance to see my super fuckin’ hot wives naked.”

Carl doesn’t really know what to say, though so many thoughts wait on the tip of his tongue. He could tell Negan that he didn’t love Ron, was only with him because it was convenient, normal, what he was supposed to do. He could tell Negan that he didn’t want to see one of those women naked because he didn’t want to see _anyone_ naked, not even a guy. He settles on muttering, “I’m not gay.”

Negan smirks and Carl can feel his amusement. “Right,” he says, nodding once. “Tell me about your family,” Negan orders, leaning back in his chair, a neutral expression taking over his face.

“You’ve already met them,” Carl monotones. It’s a statement that he only partially agrees with himself. 

Negan chuckles, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh, your _real_ family. Your blood. Where was your mom that night? No fucking way the black one is your mom, unless you’re adopted.. Are you adopted?”

“No,” Carl mutters, “my mom is dead. Died having my sister. I shot her before she turned.”

“Damn,” Negan’s voices softens and Carl wants to hit him, let Negan know that Carl doesn’t need his fucking pity. “No wonder you’re a little serial killer in the making.”

 _If only you fucking knew_ , Carl wants to say, but he bites his tongue.

“I’ve got a proposition for you, Carl,” Negan says, standing up. “You’re a smart kid. You’re tough as fuck. I juiced the heads of two of your friends and you still ain’t scared of me. Your dad was seconds away from chopping your arm off, at my command, and it still didn’t break you. No, shit, nothing can break you, huh?”

Carl shrugs, watching Negan circle him. He’s wrong. Negan can’t break him because he’s already broken. “You know what I’m thinkin’, Carl?” The man leans in closer, whispers into Carl’s ear, “You know what I want from you to make up for the people you fuckin’ _killed_ today?” 

Carl clenches his fists to hide the way his hands shake as he’s reminded of a man holding him down, breathing right into his ear, telling him to stop squirming. He tries to focus on the memory of his dad stabbing the guy in the stomach instead, his insides slipping out of bloody slits in his shirt.

“I want you to work for me,” Negan says, taking a step back. He grabs his bat from where it stands against the table, swings it up and rests it against his shoulder. “I think you and your man-sized balls could make a fucking _great_ leader someday. I want to train you, whip you into shape, have you work for me. My second in command, maybe.”

Carl looks at him incredulously, tamps down his excitement, because he can’t be serious. Asking a kid he knows nothing about to work so closely with him? It doesn’t make sense.

“So? What do you think?” Negan asks.

He’s towering over Carl, so Carl stands up, glares at him. “I know what you’re doing,” he says, crowding Negan’s space, “you want me to say yes so you can use it against my dad, but I’m not going to walk into your trap. What you’re really gonna do is kill me or lock me up like Daryl. I’m not stupid.”

Negan grins, puts an open palm against Carl’s chest and shoves him back down into the chair. He tries to stand again, but Negan stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t make offers like this, kid. _Ever_. If you don’t accept, I will kill you. Having you as a prisoner would be useless. You’d cause a whole lot of fucking trouble, I know it. It would be a waste of damn time. I’m not trying to get you to betray your old man so I can rub his face in it. You’re valuable. You’re an asset.” Negan sits on the table so he’s just above Carl’s eye level. “I don’t have kids. I need a fuckin’ heir to this shit. And you know what? I think we’re the same in a lot of ways. You think like me. You ain’t afraid to get your hands a little bloody. You don’t have a guilty conscience. You’re cut the fuck out for this. You could fill my shoes.”

Carl blinks at him, says, “you’re serious,” and though it’s more of a statement than a question, Negan nods.

“I.. Yeah,” Carl nods, “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Really?” Negan asks, grinning. “You won’t miss those sorry fuckers back home?”

Carl shakes his head. “No. I don’t need them. It’s better to play for the winning team, right?”

“Damn right, kid,” Negan chuckles, standing up. “Get up. We gotta pay a visit to your _family_.”

 

“Rick! It is _great_ to see you!” Negan greets, an arm around Carl’s shoulder. 

“Carl,” Rick whispers, looking between his son and his enemy, taking a step forward. 

“Ah!” Negan stops him, pointing his bat at Rick. “This little badass here hopped into one of my trucks and killed two of my men with a big ass gun, all in an attempt to take me out! Can you believe that? What a fucking kid you’ve raised, Rick!”

Rick’s eyes are wide, mouth open, and he’s looking at Carl like he’s grown a second head. “You did what?”

“If it were anyone else they’d be six fucking feet under by now, but I like Carl. I like him so much that I made him an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse.” Negan takes his arm off of Carl’s shoulder, nods at him once. “Go on, tell daddy dearest what we talked about.”

Carl stares into his dad’s eyes and doesn’t feel a thing. “I’m leaving,” he says, eye flickering to Michonne, who’s now standing just behind Rick, “I’m going to work for Negan. I’m going to be his right hand man.”

Tears well up in Rick’s eyes and Carl sighs, though he expected it. Rick feels too much. Carl knows he would to, had he grown up in a normal world. He considers himself to be the lucky one.

“Why?” Michonne whispers, taking a step closer. She goes to rest a hand on Carl’s shoulder but he steps back.

“Life will be better for me there,” Carl says, “I’d be stupid to say no.”

“He killed Glenn, Abraham..” Rick says, furrowing his eyebrows, “he killed your family.”

Carl rolls his eye. “That was on _you_ , dad. Rick. You’re the one who decided to kill all those people,” Carl takes a step closer so he’s almost chest to chest with his dad, standing at his full height. He’s small, shorter than Rick and almost everyone else, but there’s fear in his dad’s eyes as Carl glares up at him. “You got them killed. Maggie’s baby isn’t gonna know it’s dad because of you.” 

A crowd is starting to form around them, but Carl doesn’t look away from his dad. People are whispering but he doesn’t care. “Fuck _family_ , Rick. You couldn’t protect mom. See this?” Carl brushes his bangs to the side, catches Rick’s flinch as he looks into Carl’s empty eye socket, “Your plan ended with this. You remember what happened that night on the road, after the prison? ‘Cause I sure as hell do. You couldn’t protect me. So I’m protecting myself now.”

Carl steps back, sees Aaron watching with tears in his eyes, Father Gabriel shaking his head sadly, Rosita glaring at him, other people he never learned the names of watching the scene unfold. Olivia is standing near by with Judith, and he walks over to her, takes the toddler out of her arms. She lets him, eyes wide, fearful.

“Hey, Judy,” he says, bouncing her gently.

“Call!” She yells, smiling wide at him, grabbing on to the brim of his hat.

“I have to go away for a while, sweetheart,” Carl says softly, watching his sister’s face drop, along with her hands. “You’ll be a good girl, right? I’ll be back to see you as soon as I can.”

Judith frowns, looking at Carl with watery eyes. “P’omise?” She whispers, head tipped to the side.

Carl nods, lifting a hand to brush it through her hair. “I promise, angel. You be good for mom and dad and Olivia, okay? I love you.”

Judith nods, presses a sloppy kiss to Carl’s cheek. “Okay, Call. I love you too.”

Carl smiles at Judith as he hands her back to Olivia. He makes his way back to where Negan stands in front of the truck. 

“Well, let’s go pack you a bag and get the hell out of here,” Negan says, so Carl leads him in the direction of his house. What _used to be_ his house.

Inside, he grabs a backpack and shoves what little clothes he has into it as Negan walks around, examining the house. Carl hears occasional laughs and exclamations over the sound of his boots tracking through the building.

From the bathroom, Carl grabs a few pieces of gauze and a new bandage to cover his eye with. He’s not sure if he’ll use it or not, not sure if he’ll get in trouble for it, but having the option soothes some of his nerves. Negan can tell him it looks badass all he wants. It won’t make Carl feel any better about it.

Carl almost brings the picture of his family, the one from before all of this, the one he and Michonne risked their lives to get, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes it to Judith’s room, leaves it in her crib. She deserves to know what her real mom looked like.

When he’s done, Carl finds Negan standing in front of his dart board. He winks at Carl before he puts a hand in front of his right eye and throws a dart, hitting the bullseye on his first throw. Carl scoffs, rolls his eye and tells Negan he’s finished. 

“Alright!” Negan grins, descending the stairs with an excited hop in his step. Carl follows, though he lacks the overdone enthusiasm.

Rick and Michonne are still standing in the same place, but they’re talking now. Carl barely catches Michonne suggesting that he’s planning something. Carl smirks but doesn’t tell her that she’s wrong, decides to let them think whatever they want to make themselves feel better.

“You ready, cowboy?” Negan asks, pulling the bag off Carl’s shoulders and tossing it into the truck.

Carl nods, rounding the truck and climbing into the cab without another word to his family. As they drive through the open gate, Carl watches in the rearview as Rick falls to his knees, cradling his head in his hands.

 

There’s a room set up for him at the Sanctuary, across the hall from Negan’s. It’s just as big as his but aside from a bed and a dresser, it’s just empty space. The floor is concrete, as are the walls. The bed is dressed in white, from the sheets to the pillowcases. It’s all bland, but Carl can’t really complain. It’s so much better than the pile of blankets on the floor that he slept on back in Alexandria.

“We’ll work on getting some furniture in here,” Negan says, standing in the doorway, “Anything specific you want?”

Carl shakes his head, drops his backpack onto the bed. “This is fine.”

Negan raises an eyebrow, shrugs, but doesn’t push it. “C’mon, we got a bit’a business to take care of,” he says, heading out of the room.

Carl follows him down some stairs and through mazes of hallways and wonders if he’ll ever be able to find his way around on his own. They stop at a door with a piece of paper with ‘INFIRMARY’ scrawled on it in black marker tacked into the painted wood. 

“Doctor is here,” Negan says, tapping Lucille against the wood softly, “he’s a damn good one, too. You need anything, he’ll take care of it, all hours of the day. How’s that eye, by the way?”

Carl shrugs. “It’s fine. Healing.”

Negan nods. “Good. Think we’ll get him to check you over tomorrow, make sure you’re healthy. You’re not living on points like everyone else, though I‘d keep that between us for now,” Negan says as they continue on, “you go in there and bitch about being in pain and you’ll get some good shit. Save that for a rainy day, though.”

Carl rolls his eye but doesn’t speak.

Negan brings him to the armory next. The woman standing guard kneels as they approach, watching Carl carefully. Negan nods at her and pushes the door open, revealing a room filled with more guns than Carl could count, ammunition, knives, swords, explosives, fucking _slingshots_ , everything Carl could imagine and more. 

He’s given a knife and a gun. It’s just a pistol, but it’s better than nothing, feels good to have a weapon in his hands again. Carl puts them in the holsters on his thighs, the ones he hasn’t taken off in years, even when he didn’t have anything to put in them. 

“Alright, kid. It’s almost time for dinner. Your training officially starts tomorrow, so you can do whatever your cold, dead heart desires tonight,” Negan chuckles as they leave the armory, “There’s a bar downstairs.. how old are you?”

“Sixteen, probably,” Carl says, following Negan down another hallway. He officially has no idea how to get back to his room.

“Eh, you’re old enough,” Negan decides, waving a hand dismissively. 

The mess hall is busy when they arrive. It doesn’t take long for Negan’s presence to be noticed, and once it is, everyone gets down on their knees. Carl looks around curiously, can’t help himself. All of these people kneeling, just from Negan’s presence. 

“As you were,” Negan orders, and the saviors stand, chatter resuming like nothing happened.

“Well, kid,” Negan claps a hand on Carl’s shoulder. His eyebrow shoots up when Carl flinches, but he doesn’t ask. “Make yourself at home.”

With that, Negan leaves him, alone in a crowd of strangers. They stare him down as he passes, but Carl doesn’t falter, just stares right back.

There’s a short line up along metal food warmers at the far end of the mess hall, people slowly making their way down, taking scoops of food as they go. Carl joins them, picking up a plate from a stack. There’s all kinds of food; pork and chicken, an assortment of cooked vegetables, rice, soup, bread. More food than Carl’s seen in months. Carl takes a small scoop of rice and a piece of bread, knows he can’t stomach much more than that after years of on and off starvation. 

There’s so many tables, and almost all of them are occupied. Not full, there’s plenty of empty chairs, but he has a feeling he’s probably not welcome to sit with most of these people, not after the entrance he’d made, killing two saviors.

Carl finds an empty table off in the corner, so he takes it. He’s nibbling on the bread when he hears the chair across from him scrape on the concrete floor. 

The man with the half-burnt face, Dwight, slides into the seat, sets a plate full of food down in front of him. He’s looking at Carl, at his missing eye.

“Damn,” he mutters, picking up his fork and knife, “that’s ugly.”

Carl scoffs. “Like you can talk.”

“That all you’re gonna eat?” Dwight asks as he slices a piece of chicken, “you’re scrawny as shit.”

“What do you want?” Carl asks, setting the bread back down on his plate.

Dwight raising his eyebrow. “You looked lonely.”

“So you thought you’d bless me with your great company?” Carl rolls his eye, leans back in his chair.

Dwight just shrugs, “in a place like this you need friends. People to watch your back, at least.”

“I can handle myself.”

Chuckling, Dwight shakes his head. “You don’t know even know what you’re dealing with.”

Carl glares at him. “I know that there’s worse. I’ve lived through enough shit to know that there’s a lot worse out there than what’s in here,” he says bitterly.

Dwight raises his hands in surrender and starts eating without another word.

Carl finds that, for the most part, he’s lost his appetite. He pushes the rice around his plate a bit with his fork, but doesn’t eat any of it, manages to get down half of the bread before it feels too heavy in his stomach.

“You really not gonna eat?” Dwight asks, something like concern wrapping itself around his words.

Carl stares at him blankly. “It’s hard to eat when Freddy Kreuger is sitting across from you.”

“Fuck, when did Mike Wazowski get so mean?”

Carl chokes out a laugh at that, can’t help himself. “Fuck you,” he retorts, smiling.

When he’s done eating, Dwight doesn’t ask before leading Carl back to his room, knows that there’s no way he’d find it on his own. They walk slow, Dwight points out odd colored doors, paper signs and other landmarks Carl could use to find his way around. Though he won’t say it, Carl is grateful.

“Negan got anything lined up for you tonight?” Dwight asks as they walk down the hall that leads to Carl’s room.

Carl shakes his head. “He told me to do whatever.”

“What are you gonna do?” 

After thinking for a second, Carl shrugs. “Sleep. Maybe shower, if that’s an option.”

“Bathroom’s right there,” Dwight says, gesturing at the door next to Negan’s. 

Carl nods, eyeing Dwight carefully for a second. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“No,” Dwight admits, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lighting one up, taking a long drag. “He wants you to work for him, I’m guessing. And you don’t seem to be putting up a fight.”

“Yeah,” Carl says, hesitantly accepting the cigarette when Dwight offers it to him. “I don’t feel bad about leaving my family, except my sister. My dad looked so betrayed, but I don’t care. Is that bad?” Carl takes a pull from the smoke, resisting the urge to cough when he breathes out. It burns his chest, but he doesn’t mind, enjoys the headrush the nicotine gives him.

“Probably,” Dwight shrugs, “but in this world you gotta look out for yourself. You already know that, though.”

A burst of static comes from the walkie-talkie that’s strapped to Dwight’s belt. A woman’s voice comes through, but Carl can’t make out what she’s saying.

“Coming,” Dwight says into the speaker, and Carl takes one more drag of the cigarette before he hands it back.

“Goodnight,” Dwight says, offering Carl a small smile, “if you get your hands on a walkie-talkie, mine’s always on channel eleven when I’m here.”

Carl returns the smile, nodding once in agreement before pushing open the door to his room.

Kicking off his shoes, Carl shoves his backpack onto the floor, tosses his hat down next to it and collapses onto the mattress. He’s fucking _exhausted_ , feels it in his bones in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. Not since waking up in the infirmary with his eye missing and only real friend dead, since lying helplessly on a gravel road listening to his dad gut the man who assaulted him, since shooting his own mother in the forehead.

Carl crawls under the plush blanket and falls asleep.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negan stands, so Carl does too. A heavy hand rests on Carl’s shoulder, slow and careful. Carl tenses but he doesn’t move away, so Negan gives a gentle squeeze. “Maybe you didn’t have anyone before, but you got me now, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sensitive subject matter towards the end.
> 
> negan might be a little OOC in the end, but i think he’s got a soft spot for carl and his behaviour isn’t too far off from what could’ve been canon if carl wasn’t fuckin dead lmao
> 
> splitting this into 4 parts instead of 3, i didn’t expect it to be quite as long as it’s turning out.
> 
> also, for the sake of this fic carl is like 5’5 my small son
> 
> so many notes for this chapter but i realized i didnt put this in the first chapters notes: there’s nothing more than friendship between dwight and carl. i realize some things in this part could be taken that way so i just wanted to clear that up

At breakfast, Negan informs Carl that Dwight will be taking him to the shooting range, to see how good his aim is. Carl reminds him of his dartboard, and Negan takes the opportunity to make fun of him. (“I saw the fuckin’ holes in the wall next to your dart board, that’s for fucking sure. I mean, I even covered my eye and I still nailed ‘er right in the fucking bullseye! To be fair, though, I am known to _always_ hit the right spot.”) The first order of business, though, is visiting the doctor.

Doctor Carson is nice enough, but Carl is uncomfortable. Negan tells him to check everything he can think of, so the doctor asks Carl to take off his shirt. His hands shake as he pulls it over his head, and he really wants to say fuck it and walk out of the infirmary, but he knows Negan would drag him back in.

Negan’s watching the doctor poke and prod at Carl, sees the way Carl trembles, like his body is afraid of this man even though his mind clearly isn’t, if the scowl on his face is anything to go by. 

“Tell me more about Ron,” Negan orders, and Carl knows that he’s trying to distract him. He’s grateful, but Ron is the last person he wants to talk about.

“What do you want to know?” Carl asks quietly, keeping his head hung. 

Negan shrugs. “Why he fuckin’ shot your eye out, maybe?”

“He was aiming for my dad,” Carl mutters, “Michonne stabbed him. He accidentally pulled the trigger and hit me in the eye.” 

“Speaking of,” doctor Carson interrupts, “I’d like to take a look at that next.”

Carl tugs his shirt back on before he brushes his hair to the side and tips his head back. 

Negan hums lowly. “That’s shit. You love him?”

“No,” Carl doesn’t need to think about his answer, he’s already thought about it enough, too much, in the last few months, “He was my best friend. I liked being with him. We were the same in a lot of ways. He was.. Easy to be around, I guess, because he didn’t know all the shit I’ve done. I appreciated him, I looked forward to seeing him and I missed him when we weren’t together, but it wasn’t love.”

“Well, shit, kid,” Negan chuckles, “if that ain’t love, I don’t think you’re capable of loving.”

“I love my sister,” Carl says immediately, and it’s true, “I loved my mom and I love Maggie. I love Michonne too.”

“Right,” Negan raises an eyebrow, “noticed you didn’t mention your old man.”

Doctor Carson has taken a step back, glancing between Negan and Carl and looking ready to share his results, so Carl looks to him instead of responding to Negan. He’s said enough already.

“Aside from malnourishment, everything seems okay. Eye’s not infected, no visible injuries,” Carson says, smiling at Carl like it’s good news when in reality it’s no news. “You’re really lucky to have survived that.”

 _Right_ , Carl thinks, _like life has been so great since then._

“Think he’s gonna grow at all?” 

Doctor Carson shakes his head. “His growth was likely stunted by malnutrition, assuming that’s been an ongoing problem, so he’s probably missed his chance. It is possible but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Damn,” Negan chuckles, “oh well. Bein’ a runt hasn’t stopped you yet, right?”

Carl narrows his eye a bit, sending a silent ‘fuck you’ to Negan. 

“Feisty,” Negan teases, grabbing his arm to pull him up off the examination table.

Carl yanks his limb out of Negan’s hold, his eye wide. “Don’t touch me,” he says, pushing himself up off the table and walking briskly out of the room.

Carl hears Negan chuckle, mutter something about teenagers to the doctor, but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead he focuses on correcting his unsteady breathing, pressing the heel of his palm into his good eye. Carl whispers a quiet ‘fuck’, shaking his head to try and clear out the memories.

He’s composed himself enough by the time Negan comes out, aside from the shaking of his hands, but he doesn’t think Negan is going to notice. 

“I ever hurt you, kid?” Negan asks, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

Carl crosses his arms over his chest. “Not yet.”

Raising his eyebrows, Negan mimics the position. “You expecting me to?” He sounds curious but teasing at the same time. “That what you expect people to do? Who drilled that into you?”

Huffing, Carl glares. “Fuck you,” he mutters, holding Negan’s gaze despite every part of him wanting to look down. He feels too exposed.

Negan wears this look, the same curiosity as when he first asked about Carl’s eye. “We’ll come back to that,” Negan says. Carl wants to tell him that there’s nothing to come back to, but the man’s voice leaves no room for argument. “Dwighty boy is waiting for you.”

 

The shooting range is outside, just a few old styrofoam targets tied to the fence. One blue ring surrounds a red circle that sits in the middle of the square, a few inches of white space between the colors. They’re still in relatively good shape. Carl guesses the saviors prefer to practice on walkers. Negan leaves him there with Dwight.

“You got any experience with a gun?” Dwight asks as Carl pulls the pistol he was given out of its holster.

“Yeah,” Carl mutters, “a lot. I was a good shot before I lost my eye.”

Dwight hums, stepping back to lean against the wall of the Sanctuary. “Well, go for it.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Carl sighs, raising the pistol after checking that it’s loaded.

“You gotta earn Negan’s trust. Takes time.”

Carl chuckles, narrowing his eye as he tries to aim for the target. “He trusts you? After whatever you did to get your face melted?”

Carl fires a shot. It flies through the chainlink, hits the trunk of a tree just outside the fence. Cursing softly, Carl adjusts his aim.

“I earned it back,” Dwight’s voice is strained and Carl figures he’s hit a nerve. 

Carl hums, pulling the trigger again. The bullet clips the side of the foam. A hint of a smile tugs at Carl’s lips. Small victories.

“Was one of them your wife?” Carl asks, “is that why he did it?”

Carl hears Dwight sigh behind him. “That’s not why. But yeah. Sherry.”

The next shot misses the target by a hair. “Why’d she marry him?” 

Carl realizes he’s probably overstepping, but he’s too curious to care. There’s so much about Negan and what he does that Carl doesn’t understand. 

“Negan was gonna kill me,” Dwight says. Carl casts a glance over his shoulder and opens his mouth to ask why when Dwight shakes his head. “Story for another time,” he says.

Carl nods, turning back to the target. The next shot hits the side of the target again, just a bit closer than the second.

“Here,” Dwight takes a few steps closer so he’s behind Carl.

His face brushes against Carl’s shoulder as his arms come up to aim the gun. Carl feels his whole body tense, and he tightens his grip on the handle of the gun to stop his hands from shaking. Reminding himself that Dwight is just helping him, nothing more, Carl tries to focus on the way Dwight’s hands are moving the pistol instead of the way his chest feels against Carl’s back.

“You wanna aim it like this,” Dwight says, “probably feels a little off but you’ll get used to it.”

Carl nods, narrowing his eye, trying to memorize the position of the barrel, trying not to let his memories distract him. He pulls the trigger and hits just off the bullseye. 

“Got it?” Dwight asks, stepping back.

“Think so,” Carl mutters, his body relaxing as soon as Dwight moves away. 

Taking a deep breath, Carl tries to aim for the target, holding the gun in a way that feels a little too far left. The bullet pierces through the styrofoam right on the edge between the blue and the white.

“There you go,” Dwight says, and when Carl turns to look at him, he’s smiling. There’s something like pride in his eyes and Carl can’t help the warmth that spreads over his chest. When was the last time someone had been proud of him?

“Bit more practice and you’ll be fine,” he says, leaning back against the wall.

Carl doesn’t say anything, just focuses back on the target. He keeps shooting for a while; he loses track of time, focused on trying to hit the bullseye. Only two shots actually do, but no more miss the target.

Dwight unhooks his radio from his belt and speaks into it. Carl tunes him out as he returns his gun to its place in his holster. 

“Negan wants to talk to you,” Dwight says, nodding his head towards the building before he starts walking inside.

Carl follows. They walk in silence. It’s comfortable, and Carl finds that he isn’t wishing to be alone for the first time since Ron died. Ron was nothing like Dwight; Dwight is a heartless murderer while Ron cared too much about others for his own good. That’s what got him killed, Carl knows. His love for his mom and for his brother, for his dad, even. Carl knows he never would have pointed that gun at Rick if his mind wasn’t clouded by devastation. There’s something about Dwight that sets him at ease in a way only Ron could. Carl doesn’t care to question what that is.

Dwight leads him up a few flights of stairs, just one short of the top floor. They wind through some halls before Dwight stops them beside an open door. “I’ll see you around,” he says in parting, reaching out to squeeze Carl’s shoulder. After a reflexive flinch, Carl manages to relax under the touch. 

Carl nods as Dwight takes his hand away and starts down the hall. “Thanks,” he calls after the man.

Dwight throws a smile over his shoulder and keeps going. 

When Carl enters the room, Negan is sitting at a large table. Clearly it’s a meeting room, but no one else is in there. It’s dark, three windows on a far wall the only source of light. Everything is gray and the room feels cold and unwelcoming.

“So, how was that?” Negan asks, nodding at the chair across from him.

“Fine,” Carl says quietly as he takes the seat, “Dwight helped me aim.”

“Huh. That was nice of him,” Negan rests his forearms on the table and leans forward. “I’ve decided what I want you to do here. Something tells me you’re not gonna fuckin’ like it at first, but I think you’ll come around.”

Raising an eyebrow, Carl crosses his arms over his chest. “What is it?”

“I’m putting you in charge of all things Alexandria,” there’s a glint in Negan’s eyes as he watches for Carl’s reaction.

Carl’s eyebrow furrows, but he doesn’t show more emotion than that. “What does that mean?”

“You’re gonna take my place on pick-ups, decide what we take and what we don’t,” Negan pauses, a smirk spreading over his lips as he adds, “who lives and who doesn’t.”

Carl frowns, leaning back in his chair. “You expect me to kill them?”

The way Negan’s eyebrows shoot up is almost comical. “You know, I’m offended that you think I would make you do that,” he says, crossing his arms and mimicking Carl’s position. “You are the only one who gets to decide who dies. Who gets to do the dirty work is also up to you.”

Carl sighs, chewing on his lip. It could be worse. At least he can keep those who deserve to live alive. 

“Yeah, okay,” Carl mutters, “I can handle that.”

“That’s my boy,” Negan is grinning now, pushing his chair away from the table so he can stand. “You’re going on a pick up tomorrow. Someone’ll find you when everything is ready to go. Actually, go to the armory and pick up a walkie. Set it on channel five.”

“I’m setting it on eleven,” Carl says, standing up as Negan rounds the table.

Negan chuckles, shrugging one shoulder. “Fine. But you better check five, ‘cause that’s where your team’ll be.”

“Fine,” Carl says, glancing at the still-open door. “Is that all?”

“Yes sir,” Negan makes for the door, so Carl follows, “when you’re not on pick-ups or dealing with me, you’re free to do whatever the fuck you want.”

Negan disappears down the hall, through the door that leads to his harem. Rolling his eye, Carl makes his way to the bathroom.

Carl showers, washes away the weight of the past day and lets it swirl down the drain. He stays under the water longer than he needs to, long after the spray has run cold. It doesn’t bother him. The icy water hits his back but the feeling doesn’t reach his brain. His thoughts are someplace else but he can’t figure out where, can’t make sense of them. 

Somehow, he manages to get himself out of the shower and wrap a towel around his shoulders before he comes back. A bit of fog still blurs the top of the mirror, but Carl can see himself fine. He tugs the towel around himself tighter as he shivers, turning away from the mirror to find his clothes. Carl never allows himself to look at his reflection for too long. The self-deprecating thoughts his face brings along get him nowhere.

Once dry and dressed, Carl crosses the hall to grab a bandage and gauze from his room. The bandage is clean, which is a luxury he hasn’t allowed himself in a long time, not wanting to waste supplies on himself. He’s past the point of caring now.

Once the gauze his pressed against his socket and the bandage is tucked under his hair, Carl feels safer, less exposed. His missing eye is a weakness. Carl knows that he doesn’t have many weakness, that not a lot moves him anymore, but his eye and how he lost it still does.

The rest of the afternoon is hazy. He grabs a radio from the armory and immediately tunes it to channel eleven. It’s quiet for the most part, aside from the occasional calls for saviors Carl has never met. Carl spends what feels like minutes but was probably hours lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Every thought he starts, whether about his mom, his dad, Ron, even Judith, doesn’t get finished. His mind blanks after a few seconds and it takes staticky voices coming through the radio to bring him back.

He doesn’t even move, not until he hears Dwight’s voice. _”Going in for lunch, gonna turn this off so find me if you need me.”_

Clearing his throat, Carl picks up the radio and speaks into it. “Dwight?”

_”Yeah? Carl?”_

“Could I eat with you?”

Dwight agrees, and then another voice comes through to tease Carl about having a crush. It takes him a second but Carl recognizes the voice as Negan. Carl shoots a ‘fuck you’ back before he heads for the mess hall.

It’s nowhere near as busy as it was at dinner or breakfast. He supposes a lot of the saviors aren’t around at this time of day. Carl grabs a sandwich before he scans the room for Dwight, who’s sitting at the same table they ate dinner at.

Carl sits with one leg folded underneath him, the way he always sat at the dinner table back in Alexandria. _”That’ll kill your knee,”_ Michonne would tell him. 

They make small talk. Carl’s not good at talking about himself so he keeps the conversation more on Dwight. Maggie was the only one to ever notice when Carl would try to keep the attention away from himself. It always made her pry. Though Carl always kept his answers short, he couldn’t stop the warmth he’d felt. Others didn’t take interest in him.

The pair eventually falls into silence as they eat. It takes Carl a few seconds to realize that Dwight is staring.

“What?” Carl asks after swallowing his mouthful.

“Your eye is covered,” he says simply.

Carl frowns. “Don’t talk about my eye,” he mutters.

Dwight stays quiet, so Carl keeps eating. The feeling of eyes on him never leaves, even as Dwight continues to eat, but he does his best to ignore it. 

It isn’t long before Dwight speaks up again. “You’re gonna look like that for the rest of your life,” his words come out slow, calculated, “you can see it as a fault or you can see it for what it is. Something you survived. I get the feeling you’ve survived a lot more than any of us here,” Dwight gestures around the room with his hand, “so own it. People can only use it against you if you let them.”

Carl takes his time thinking about Dwight’s words. Of course he’s right, it doesn’t take Carl long to come to that conclusion, but Negan is the only other person who’s ever said anything about his eye. Everyone knew how he felt about it. Daryl once offered him a quiet _’ain’t that bad’_ when he’d caught Carl staring at his heinous reflection, but aside from that, no one tried to change his mind. Maybe it’s because they couldn’t ever understand. Dwight can.

“Thanks,” Carl says, “I still hate it, but thank you for trying. No one else has.”

Dwight smiles and Carl hates the traces of sympathy he finds in the curved flesh. “If I could’ve had it my way, I never would’ve seen the light of day again after this,” Dwight points to his own face, the scars that cover the right side, “but I learned to live with it. You will too.”

Carl stays quiet for a second, his eye considering Dwight. His emerald eyes are soft and his smile is sincere. Carl’s next words leave his mouth before he really thinks them through: “Why are you doing this?”

Dwight cocks an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

Carl frowns. “I don’t know. Talking to me. Trying to be.. my friend or whatever. Did Negan tell you to?”

Dwight’s face scrunches up like he’s trying to understand an abstract concept for the first time; Carl supposes that’s a good sign. “No. You looked lonely, I told you that yesterday. You looked like you needed a friend, and hell, I needed one myself.”

Carl smirks, narrowing his eye at Dwight. “Your only friend is an unstable sixteen year old?”

Shaking his head, Dwight barks out a laugh. “Fuck you, Wazowski.”

“You wish, Kruger.”

 

It’s late the next time Carl leaves his room. The sun has set, dinner has been put away. Only a few saviors cross Carl’s path as he finds his way through the maze of hallways he’s slowly solving. Carl is almost thankful for all of the running and the labor he’s had to do over the years; he’s not sure he’d ever be able to tackle the stairs from his room to the ground floor otherwise. 

An extra set of stairs leads Carl to the basement, to the bar Negan had mentioned. 

The bar is in one big, open room. There’s a shelving unit against one of the walls, well stocked with bottles of alcohol. People stand around the table that stands in front of the shelves, a pretty woman positioned behind it. There’s a few tables spread around the room, most of them occupied.

Carl doesn’t exactly know what to do. He’s never seen a place like this, of course he hasn’t, and it’s intimidating but exciting at the same time. Everyone’s carefree, just enjoying themselves and the alcoholic haze. The last time Carl’s seen so many people so relaxed and happy, he doesn’t remember. 

“Never seen you here before,” a voice says into Carl’s ear from behind him. It’s smooth and not particularly deep, similar to Carl’s own.

Turning around, Carl is met with a pair of deep set umber eyes. Beyond them, skin is stretched taut over bone, creating sharp angles and deep hollows. Wavy charcoal hair frames the guy’s face, with thick eyebrows to match. Pale, defined lips are twisted into a devious smile. 

“You’re that dude’s kid,” the stranger pauses to think, “Rick. You’re Rick’s kid, right?”

Raising his eyebrow, Carl nods. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Damien,” he answers, holding out his hand.

Carl takes it, shaking Damien’s hand gently. He recalls a movie he used to watch, some old horror story about satan’s spawn. The kid was called Damien. He had the same dark, mischievous eyes.

“Carl,” he mutters.

Damien holds on to Carl’s hand a second longer than he needs to. When he pulls back, it’s slow, the soft tips of his fingers dragging over Carl’s palm. “Carl,” he repeats, like he’s testing how the name feels on his tongue. “You want a drink?”

Before Carl can answer, Damien is heading off in the direction of the makeshift bar. He glances over his shoulder, nods his head towards the bar, an unspoken instruction to follow.

Damien asks the woman for two shots of something strong. After taking a second to eye up Carl, she nods, grabbing two plastic cups and pouring a few splashes of a honey-colored spirit into each cup. 

“Thanks,” Damien says, taking the cups and passing one to Carl.

Damien empties the cup into his mouth in one swift motion, so Carl does the same. The liquid burns his tongue and Carl almost spits it out. The same fire trails down his throat and settles in his stomach, leaving a spicy-sweet malt flavor behind.

“Good, right?” Damien grins, setting his cup down on the bar.

“No,” Carl winces, face scrunched up in disgust.

Damien laughs; a light, airy sound breezing past his lips. “You’ll get used to it.”

He asks for two more, and the woman complies. Carl figures he might as well indulge. This is his life now. This is what saviors do.

The second shot is easier to down, but it tastes just as putrid as the first. A headrush hits him not long after he swallows; he feels a little clumsy as he sets the cup down on the table. 

“Want another?” Damien asks.

Carl shakes his head, so Damien drops his cup and leads Carl a few feet away, so they’re standing next to a wall, out of the way of other saviors.

Damien leans against the wall, smiling the same devious smile as before. “How old are you?” He asks.

Carl shrugs, “I don’t know. Around sixteen.”

Humming, Damien’s dark eyes scan over Carl. “Me too,” he says, and then he’s stepping closer.

Carl doesn’t even realize what’s happening until it’s over. Damien slides an arm around Carl’s waist, and it makes his skin burn under his shirt, his blood pressure rise, his respiration quicken, all at once. With two open hands, he pushes Damien back. While the boy takes a second to find his balance, Carl draws his fist back and swings. A hard punch lands in the center of Damien’s face, bone cracking under Carl’s knuckles.

Carl is already on his way out when he hears Damien shout ‘what the fuck’. People are staring at him as he leaves. He doesn’t care. Fuck that asshole for thinking he could just touch Carl like that. Fuck him for thinking he could just take without asking. 

Carl climbs stairs and crosses halls as fast as his legs will take him. He doesn’t leave his room for the rest of the night.

 

There’s something different in the air when Carl steps out of the truck in Alexandria. Tension seeps into him through his pores, heightens his senses as he waits for everyone to get out of the vehicles.

“Whatever you normally do, take food, medicine, whatever, get ready to do it. Don’t touch anything until I tell you what you can and can’t take,” Carl orders, and the Saviors glance between each other uneasily, not moving. “What are you waiting for?” He asks, and they all shift into gear, grabbing empty boxes and crates out of trucks and setting off in different directions.

Rosita was the one to let them in, and she doesn’t dare speak a word to Carl, just watches him from a distance. Anger and hatred seep out from between her narrowed eyelids. Carl doesn’t mind. They never liked each other that much anyway. People come out of their houses, as they always do when the saviors come, but the unease they bring is palpable. They all stare at Carl, looking away if he directs his gaze to them.

Shaking off the weight of their eyes, Carl pulls his walkie talkie off his belt and holds it up to his mouth. He’d tuned it to channel five this morning. “One more thing- no one gets hurt. If someone steps out of line tell me. I’ll decide what we do with them. Don’t touch anyone without my permission.” 

As Carl speaks, he sees Michonne approaching him, the only one brave enough to confront him. It’s then that Carl notices he hasn’t seen his dad.

There’s pain in her eyes as she takes in the sight of him. For a second, she just stares at him. Carl sees her arms twitch twice before she finally pulls him into a hug. It’s too much, it’s suffocating, but it’s not enough, all at once. He returns the embrace, only for a second, pulls back once he feels his heart start to race.

“What are you doing?” Michonne asks, holding eye contact with him even as she begins to tear up.

“Picking up our shit,” Carl answers, beginning to head off in the direction of the pantry. 

Michonne follows. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sighing softly, Carl glances at her. “I know you heard what I told my dad.”

“I was hoping that wasn’t true.”

“It was,” Carl says as they step through the pantry’s open doorway. 

The saviors are waiting, just like Carl told them to do. Three of the eight shelving units are stocked. 

“Clear one unit,” Carl says, “only one.”

All but one of the saviors get to work. The remaining man, who Carl hasn’t learned the name of and doesn’t really care to, raises an eyebrow. “That’s not half,” he says skeptically.

“Congratulations, you can do math,” Carl deadpans, “I’m in charge here. You listen to me.”

The man glares at Carl but doesn’t protest. Carl can’t help but smirk at the obedience. 

“You’re in charge?” Michonne asks, bewildered. 

Carl shrugs and leads her out of the pantry. “Just of you. Of here.”

Michonne follows silently. Carl can tell there’s so much she wants to say but she’s holding her tongue. Whose sake it’s for, he can’t be sure.

Michonne follows him to the infirmary, where he tells the waiting group they’re not to take any antibiotics or painkillers, and no more than half of anything else. None of them seem certain. They do as they’re told anyways, delayed for just a few seconds by doubt. 

“He’s letting you do this? Take less than usual?” Michonne finally asks once they’re outside again.

Carl doesn’t need to clarify who _he_ is, especially not with the way Michonne spits the pronoun out like it burns her tongue. “He told me I get to decide what we take and I get to decide who dies.”

The flinch of Michonne’s shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed. Too blunt, he supposes. She doesn’t say anything.

With a soft sigh, Carl turns to face Michonne. “I’ll make things better here,” he promises, “I will.”

Michonne’s eyes are wide and shining. “Things will never be better without you here. Maybe for some, but not for me, not for your dad. _Never_ ,” her words come out a strained whisper. 

“They will,” Carl says. _I’m sorry for putting you through this, I’m sorry for leaving you like this, I’m sorry I had to do this,_ Carl doesn’t say. 

 

By the time Carl and his group of saviors get back to the Sanctuary, dinner is almost over. Carl makes his way to the mess hall, leaves his team to unload with a poorly hidden smirk. 

Dwight is out on a pick-up, or so Carl is told by some stranger’s voice through his radio, so Carl sits alone. He grabs some food but finds he doesn’t have much appetite. Thoughts of the nearly empty pantry that was meant to feed all of Alexandria flash behind his eyes and something like guilt settles in his stomach each him he tries to eat.

Carl isn’t sure how long he sits there, staring at his plate and fiddling with his walkie, before he’s interrupted.

“Carl.”

Snapping his head up, Carl comes face to face with Negan. His expression is neutral, but his eyes are hard, serious. “Come with me.”

Negan’s tone leaves no room for argument, so Carl stands, follows the man out of the room, through a few halls.

“Did I do something?” Carl asks, “is this about the pick up?”

“No,” Negan says, pushing open a door.

He flicks a lightswitch and a pale yellow glow covers the room. There’s a few couches, chairs, tables. A stereo sits on the floor in a corner. They’re in some kind of lounge, Carl figures.

“Sit.” Negan orders, shutting the door behind them.

Furrowing his eyebrow, Carl sits stiffly on one of the couches. Keeps his back straight and shoulders tense, staying guarded, in the same way Carl is always guarded. “What’s going on?” 

Negan sits in a chair across from Carl. Scratching his forehead, just above his eyebrow, Negan sighs softly. “I haven’t had to do this in years, so bear with me here.”

“Do what?” Carl asks, and he knows the panic is evident in his voice.

“I heard about what happened,” Negan begins, “at the bar. That kid you hit.”

Carl’s heart begins to hammer beneath his shirt. “Okay.” He mutters, clasping his hands together in his lap.

“I was told he was touching you and you threw him off and fuckin’ decked him. That true?”

Carl nods, maintaining eye contact with Negan, despite how difficult the task is. Negan’s dark gaze is penetrating Carl’s skull, finding all of the things he keeps hidden.

“Right. Shit. Been thinking about this since you got here but I can’t ignore it now,” Negan pauses, and Carl can see that he’s thinking over his next words, “I used to work in a school. Part of our training was on abuse, how to know if a kid is in a bad situation, you know.”

Carl swallows hard. He knows what Negan is getting at. He knows that Negan knows. Carl squeezes his hands tighter as they begin to shake, fingertips darkening, nails whitening. A quiet breath is punched out of his lungs by his pounding heart.

“You show all the signs, kid. Have since I first met you. And I’ve been trying to figure out what it was. Maybe it was Rick, maybe he roughed you up every now and then, but I don’t think so,” Negan leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. His hands come together and he rests his chin on top of them. “We were trained to know the difference between physical and sexual abuse.”

“Stop,” Carl breathes, eyes wide. “Just-“

Negan shakes his head. “See, with physical abuse, there’s fear, but it tends to go away once the victim realizes they’re not in danger, but when it’s sexual.. Any touch means danger. Carl, I think you know what I’m getting at.. Am I right?”

“No,” Carl says, too quickly, too aggressive, “You’re wrong. There’s nothing- I wasn’t-“

“Carl,” Negan says softly, too soft, and Carl hates it, “I’m right. I know I am. You don’t have to talk about it. It might do you good, though.”

Tears build up in his eye as Carl looks towards the ceiling. He can’t deny it. Negan wouldn’t believe him if he tried. There’s a moment of silence before Carl whispers, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything,” Negan prompts, watching Carl carefully, “Whatever you need to say. I won’t think any less of you, kid. You’re still the same badass I always thought you were.”

Carl shakes his head. “I don’t talk about it. I don’t want to.”

“And you don’t have to,” Negan says, leaning back in his chair, “but if you have anything to say, now is your chance. Sometimes it’s good to get things off your chest. Sometimes it helps.”

A tear falls from Carl’s eye and he curses under his breath, wiping it away. He feels weak and exposed, more so than he ever has before, and it shakes him, makes him lose his sense of judgement and start talking. “I didn’t even know him,” he begins, focusing his gaze on his shaking hands, “these guys wanted payback for my dad killing someone- and they’re all dead now but it doesn’t go away.”

Negan nods, eyes understanding and sympathetic, and for once Carl doesn’t hate the pity. It encourages him to keep going because finally, someone is listening. “He was big- so much bigger than me. I tried to get away but I couldn’t. He kept telling me to stop squirming.. eventually I did.” Carl closes his eye, takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I tried to pretend I was somewhere else but I could feel him all over. I still can.”

“That’s more than anyone should have to live with,” Negan rubs a hand over his beard, “so Rick knew, then?”

Carl nods. “So did Abraham, the man you killed, the first one. They were there.”

Negan’s eyebrows shoot up and a film of anger covers his eyes. “They were there and they didn’t stop it?”

“They couldn’t.” Never once did Carl expect he would be defending Rick and Abraham over this. He knows he shouldn’t blame them but he always has, even after they killed the Claimers, after Abraham held Carl close and stroked his head and whispered about how everything was going to be okay while Rick stabbed and stabbed and stabbed until the rapist’s insides were outsides. It was too late. The damage was done. Rick could stab and Abraham could whisper but nothing could change what happened. They didn’t act fast enough. “They were held back, had guns to their heads. There was nothing they could do.”

Negan lets out a slow breath. “I know you don’t believe that.”

Carl shrugs. “It’s true. I.. I think I’ll always hate them for it, though. Hating them doesn’t make me feel any better but I still hate them.”

“I think you have every right to feel that way,” Negan nods, “Hell, I hate your dad just a little bit more for that.”

Carl offers Negan a small smile before he hangs his head, letting his hair cover his face. He just let Negan in, exposed the parts of himself he tried so hard to keep locked away. Negan knows. And maybe he’s not the first person to know, but he cares. Carl can’t say the same for Rick and he couldn’t say the same for Abraham when he was alive. They knew but they never brought it up. They never asked if he was okay, never checked to make sure his brain was running like normal. It wasn’t and they never cared.

“Listen to me, alright, Carl?” 

Carl raises his head again, looks Negan right in the face. His eyes are serious again, brows pulled together just a bit. 

“It doesn’t matter how much this has changed you, how this makes you feel or act. You’re strong as all hell. You hear me?” Carl nods once, so Negan continues. “You’ve carried this for years and you’re still standing. I’m damn proud of you for living through this. Today was a step in the right direction. You let this out. You talked about it. I can see how hard that was for you. It might take a long time, but you’ll recover from this. You’ll never forget, but you’ll learn to live like normal again. I promise you that.”

Carl swallows the lump that has built in his throat as liquid emotion blurs his vision. Someone really fucking _cares_ and it feels so overwhelmingly good. He can’t find the right words, can’t find _any_ words other than ‘thank you’, so he just swipes at his eye and nods.

Negan stands, so Carl does too. Negan rests a hand on Carl’s shoulder, slow and careful. Carl tenses but he doesn’t move away, so Negan gives a gentle squeeze. “Maybe you didn’t have anyone before, but you got me now, kid.”

Carl can’t handle the honesty and the pride in Negan’s gaze so he closes his eye. “Thank you.”

Negan gingerly pats Carl’s shoulder. “Don’t mention it. We’re family now.”

Carl tries, he really does, but he can’t bring himself to feel remorse over the comfort those words bring him.


End file.
